


A Magpie Rhyme

by bethagain



Series: December Stories [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (I mean maybe that's obvious but just in case), Gen, don't worry it's not all sad, trigger warning for death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21752431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethagain/pseuds/bethagain
Summary: A series of vignettes in the life and times of Death, to the tune of the old magpie nursery rhyme: One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl and four for a boy. Five for silver, six for gold. Seven for a secret, never to be told.
Series: December Stories [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561195
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	A Magpie Rhyme

**Author's Note:**

> Day ten of the 31 Days of Ineffables advent fic challenge. Thank you to [drawlight](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/) for starting this thing and for today's prompt, which was _silver and gold_. Thanks also to [emeraldscholar](https://emeraldscholar.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the extra inspiration of the nursery rhyme. And to [thebyrchentwigges](https://thebyrchentwigges.tumblr.com/) for ongoing cheerleading!

**One for Sorrow**

Adam, 18 years old and a freshman in college, finished his last exam of the semester yesterday. His bag is packed and he has a train ticket to Leeds, where his grandma lives.

Lived.

He was supposed to visit her in the hospital today, tell her he loved her. To get well soon. She died this morning.

Adam sits on the floor of his dorm room, phone in hand. It still shows the last call, evidence of the conversation he just finished with his mother. The world feels quiet all of a sudden, like everything's shut down.

Death sits on the floor beside him.

That's Death for you, shows up unannounced. Shows up when he wants to, no choice for anybody else. Doesn't even knock.

"You didn't have to," Adam says.

Death sits there beside him, the bottoms of his black wings resting on the cheap gray carpet.

"You could have waited."

Death sits there beside him.

"I hate you," Adam says.

Death sits there beside him.

"Why?" Adam says.

Death sits there beside him. "It's the world," Death says. "There is no why."

"Take it back," Adam says. "Give her back."

"Not even," Death says, "for you."

Adam starts to cry. 

A black-feathered wing lifts itself around his shoulders, over his head, enveloping him in darkness. In peace.

Some time later--and no time, because the clock on Adam's phone is unchanged--he's sitting on the floor in his room again. Death sits beside him. 

Adam wipes away tears. "Is that where she is now? Where everything's ok?"

"That is not for you to know," Death says. Death sits there on the floor beside him. Death says, "Yes."

Adam looks around. He's alone in his dorm room. It's still a terrible day.

But everything feels a little bit lighter.

**Two for Joy**

Sometimes, Death likes to watch. 

It’s a desperate case. A young stonemason fell from scaffolding at the half-built cathedral. His pale skin shows that he’s been bleeding inside. His broken tibia pokes through his skin. A pool of blood is forming beneath his head. A doctor works over him, shaking his head as he binds the wounds.

The young man’s coworkers are gathered near the doorway, hats in hands, looking stricken.

An angel hovers nearby, invisible to human eyes. Aziraphale can stop infection. His prayer will close the lacerated liver and heal the bruised kidney. He has no power over Death. 

“Well?” says the angel, irritated, as Death waits.

To the doctor’s astonishment, the young man opens his eyes. He sits up, touching his head, feeling for the bump. One co-worker rushes toward him, envelops him in a hug. 

“It’s not his time,” Death says, and is gone.

The world is the world, Death thinks, as he makes his way to a nearby corner where two carriages are about to collide. He shouldn’t care, he’s not built to care. But it’s nice to see a miracle sometimes. 

**Three for a Girl**

Death never gets a holiday. He does, though, sometimes turn up at very fancy places. 

The restaurant is the kind where you can eat dinner, or you can stay away and for the same amount of money, pay a month’s rent for a family of four. All the tables are full. All these people chose dinner.

The hostess is a tall redhead in four inch heels. She’s wearing slim black trousers, a black silk button-down shirt, and a feather boa that lands on just the right side of camp. The feathers are black and lustrous. The spaces between them seem to soak up all the light. 

Death, of course, recognizes the demon Crowley. 

“Here to pick one up?” is Crowley’s version of saying hello. “Shame, they’re just getting started on the sinning tonight.”

Death inclines his head in acknowledgment. 

“Well, I mean,” Crowley says, cheerful, “they _think_ they’re sinning. That’s just as good, right? Gluttony, that’s an easy one. But get this.” Crowley grabs a menu from the nearby stand. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, pointing to each line. “Not a single duck was tortured to make that fois gras. But do you think they ask? Every single vegetable organically grown, harvested by workers paid a living wage. With a retirement plan! They don’t care. They just want to know that it costs more than other people can afford.”

Crowley sets the menu back in its place. “Which one you here for?” 

“You will see,” Death says.

Crowley shrugs. “Ok, fine, don’t let me stop you. Great outfit today, by the way. I like the new hood. And you’ve done something with your wings, they’re extra black today.”

Death nods a thank you. “Nice touch with the feather boa,” Death says. “Very demonic, in an understated way.”

Crowley grins. “Thanks! Give a shout when you’re done. I’d rather not see it happen.”

“Of course.” 

Crowley greets another customer, while Death glides on in to the dining room.

**Four for a Boy**

Death has always been as he is. He has never been a child. He will never be an old man. 

He is unflappable, indescribable, and unspeakable.

But every now and then, he wonders what it would have been like to be a boy.

That’s why, if you were in Tadfield on a certain evening after the world didn’t end, you might have seen Death. Nobody died that day, of course, at least not there. Adam had seen to that. The other three Horsemen had discorporated and Death had faded away. 

But he didn’t stay away. He was curious about these children who were unafraid of the end of the world. So he followed one of them home. 

While Adam’s father banished him to his room, Brian’s parents were cheerfully oblivious. Death watched as Brian hollered hello through the back door, played around in the yard for a while, and went in for dinner. 

If you’d happened to look into Brian’s yard after dark that night, you’d have seen a sight that was terrifying or hilarious, depending on your worldview. Death spent a few minutes pushing around Brian’s toy cars, a few more sitting on his tire swing. But his favorite part, and the place he spent a good long while, was jumping on the trampoline. 

**Five for Silver**

Most of the time Death doesn’t carry the scythe. It’s heavy, unwieldy, and you really don’t want to swing it the wrong way and end up harvesting an extra soul you don’t know what to do with.

But sometimes a Spirit of Oblivion wants to put on a show. Look extra intimidating. 

That’s why Death keeps the blade brightly polished. When he’s in between jobs, you might find him sitting on a block of Night, feet planted in a puddle of Darkness, a polishing rag in hand and a tub of silver polish at his side. 

If you ever see Death in his full glory, black wings shining, scythe glinting with cold light--it might be small consolation, since you’re also about to be dead, but at least you’ll know he thought you were important enough to impress. 

**Six for Gold**

Death never changes his mind. You can plead. You can try to make bargains. You can beg. It won’t help. 

That’s the world. Your time is your time. 

Still, there are good deaths and bad deaths, and Death can’t help but notice. His idea of good deaths might be a little different from yours. 

He likes the good ones. The kind ones. The ones when everyone says, She was always so kind. He was always so thoughtful. They were generous, they were faithful. They were all heart, they were good-hearted, they were good as gold. 

He likes the good ones, because he knows where they’re going. With no doubt, no time in purgatory, no need for atonement. 

Their souls pass through him, soft and gentle, and go on into the light. 

**Seven for a Secret, Never to Be Told**

Aziraphale and Crowley never have to think about dying. Not for themselves, anyhow. They’ve been around since before there was a world. They’ll be around long after. 

Death doesn’t have to think about them, either, but he does. Because he sees them together, where a demon and an angel shouldn’t be. 

The year is 1543, and he sees Crowley lurking in shadowed corners while Aziraphale sits by the deathbed of a child. He sees the two of them later, heads together, sorrow on the angel’s face, sympathy on the demon’s.

It’s 1941 and Death sees them leaving the ruins of a bomb-blasted church together, as he passes through to carry away three souls. He hears kind words exchanged.

He’s in St. James Park in the early 1800s, lifting away the spirit from an elderly man, and sees them walking side by side. 

Death knows what he’s seeing, he’s seen it before. The end of life has a way of crystallizing friendship. It concentrates love. 

And Death keeps his counsel, and he keeps their secret. 

He has his role. The world is the world. 

He does his job, and the rest of the universe spins on around him.


End file.
